Pushing Deansies: Season 1
by Malkon05
Summary: Born from delirium in Malkon05's mind, comes an epic tale that is so familiar and yet...completely redone. Mostly. We give you...what would happen if the characters from Supernatural were thrown into the world of Pushing Daisies? Well think about it for a second. There's pie and longing glances...seems like the same show to us! WittyXtina & Malkon05 (co-authors) Destiel fic ;)
1. Chapter 1: Pie-lette

_**A/N:**_ _Born from delirium in Malkon05's mind, comes an epic tale that is so familiar and yet...completely redone. Mostly. We don't own anything except all the stuff we do own, which are 100% not these characters or situations unless Malkon05 isn't telling me some serious shit. That would be super messed up. We give you...what would happen if the characters from Supernatural were thrown into the world of Pushing Daisies? Well think about it for a second. There's pie and longing glances...seems like the same show to us!_ -WittyXtina  & Malkon05

 **Chapter 1: Pie-lette**

At this very moment in the town of Lawrence, Kansas, young Castiel Novak was 9 years, 27 days, 5 hours and 9 minutes old and not a minute older. Horrorstruck, Castiel could only watch as his beloved dog, Raphael, was slammed into by a speeding semi truck, that continued on as if nothing had happened. Walking through a nightmare he couldn't wake up from, Castiel's body trembled as he knelt beside his best friend. Holding back tears, his hand, controlled similar to that of a puppeteer's string, rested between his dear friend's eyes. With a static shock, Castiel fell back, hands scraping against the pavement. As the blood welled into the tiny cracks in his palms, the nightmare was over. Raphael rolled over, tail wagging, and looked up to his owner with puppy dog eyes. This was the moment that young Castiel discovered he wasn't like the other children. Or anything else for that matter. Castiel could touch dead things and bring them back to life.

This gift was given to him, but not by anyone in particular. There was no box, no instructions, no manufacturer's warranty: it just was. The terms of use weren't immediately clear, nor were they of immediate concern: young Castiel was in love. His name was Dean and he lived next door with his brother and his father. At this very moment, Dean was 8 years, 42 weeks, 3 hours and 2 minutes old. His brother Sam was 4 years, 30 weeks, 1 hour and 5 minutes old which meant he was too young to play with Dean. Castiel was happy to volunteer. As for Dean, young Castiel did not think of him as being born or hatched or conceived in any way: Dean came ready-made from a hex bag designed for love and only true, devoted, selfless love. Not that Castiel was a witch, because that would be wrong.

"Cas! Look! I'm a merman!" Dean splashed in the kiddie pool, spraying young Castiel with the hose. "Cas...is it okay if I call you Cas?" His eyes flashed upwards, meeting young Castiel's azure gaze. Castiel nodded innocently, holding Dean's stare….and returning fire with a Super Soaker he had been hiding behind his back.

Long after their play date was over, young Castiel remained under Dean's spell...until a blood vessel in his mother's head burst, killing her instantly. The rolling pin fell from her hand, crashing to the kitchen tile with a ceramic splatter, the cherry sour cream pie she had been meticulously baking forgotten on the counter, eternally waiting for its egg washed lattice top.

Just like the instance with Raphael, young Castiel's trembling hands brushed the cheek of his fallen mother.

"Must've slipped," she sat up with a jolt. "Did the timer go off?"

Young Castiel's random gift that was given, came with a caveat or two. No sooner did the one minute timer go off, did a loud thud followed by the wails of two young children echo outside.

"Daddy?" Sam's eyes began to water.

"Look away Sammy," Dean crouched next to his brother, shielding his eyes from the sight, tears welling up in his own emerald eyes.

Young Castiel turned his attention to the window and saw John Winchester, Dean and Sam's father, lying motionless on the ground. It was a gift that not only gave, it took. Young Castiel discovered that he could only bring the dead back to life for one minute without consequence; any longer, and someone else had to die.

In the grand universal scheme of things, young Castiel had traded his mother's life for Dean's father. But there was one more thing about touching dead things that young Castiel didn't know, and he learned it in the most unfortunate way.

"C'mon, my angel, into bed." That night, his mother sat next to his bed. She bent down to kiss his forehead and with the same static sensation, went lifeless and flopped to the floor. First touch: life. Second touch: dead again, forever.

After a brief mourning period, young Castiel's oldest and most responsible (on paper) brother, Michael, would hustle him off to boarding school, never to be seen again. Dean and Sam would be fostered by Aunts Ellen and Jody, a renowned synchronized skeet shooting duo: they shared a love for fine handcrafted firearms and made killer cheeseburgers that were rumored to have the power to stop global warming.

At their respective parents' funerals, dizzy with grief, curiosity, and hormones, young Castiel and a boy named Dean had their first and only kiss. Small lips met, in a confusing whirl of uneasy adult anxiety and boyhood innocence.

"I won't forget you Cas," Dean said as the pair split and walked into the shimmering sunset with their parting families. After his mother's death, Castiel avoided social attachments, fearing what he'd do if someone else he loved so dearly died.

And he became obsessed with pies much like his mother. All kinds, all flavors.

19 years, 34 weeks, 1 day and 59 minutes later, young Castiel became known as The Pie Maker, and his shop The Pie Hole was where he made his pies; the peaches never browned, the dead fruit in his hands became ripe with everlasting flavor and delectable scent, as long as he only touched it once.

* * *

"Everyday I come in," A woman in a black, skintight pants and a crimson blouse cut to amplify her cleavage sauntered around the shop. "I pick a pie. I concentrate all my love on that pie." She approached the customer to whom she was addressing, who gave her a pained look as if she was the largest elephant in the room. "Cuz if I love it, someone else is gonna love it…you don't give a rat's ass about me or what I'm saying do you?"

"What pie do you love today?" The man asked with a sarcastic British tone. He scowled and wrinkled his uncharacteristically button nose. She snorted derisively.

"Rhubarb." The waitress rested her hand on her hip, annoyed, and blowing a wisp of black hair from in front of her eyes. Tres chic, or so she liked to think.

"I'll stick with Three Plum. A la mode." The man crisply snapped the newspaper he was reading, indicating his dismissal of her. Burying his nose in the latest gossip, his eyes wandered to her shapely legs, nearly obscured by the newsprint.

Fergus Crowley was the sole keeper of Castiel's secret. A private investigator, specialising in murder most foul, Mr. Crowley met our Pie Maker when the shop was on the verge of financial ruin. Mr. Crowley proposed a partnership: murders are much easier to solve when you can ask the victim who killed them. Castiel reluctantly agreed, the cash was needed, and it felt good to have someone who knew what he dealt with day in and day out, even if they were only in it for the money.

"Pardon me." Castiel passed the waitress in the body-contouring black. As he passed, she gave him a look of sultry desire. The Pie Maker, though noticing it, chose to ignore the look and instead, sat next to Mr. Crowley, who immediately began to talk about a case and treating the deceased person in question, as if they were a member of the living dead.

"I asked you not to use the word 'zombie.' It's disrespectful," Castiel frowned. "Stumbling around squawking for brains, it's not what they do. And 'undead,'" he scoffed, "Nobody wants to be un-anything. Why begin a statement with the negative? It's like saying 'I don't disagree': just say 'you agree.'"

Mr. Crowley rolled his eyes. "Are you comfortable with 'living dead'? You seem maybe a little too comfortable. Secret fetish?" He waggled his eyebrows at Castiel.

"Are you implying that I'm a necrophiliac because I prefer to call them alive again?" Castiel blushed.

"Maaaaaaybe," Mr. Crowley smirked. The virginal Piemaker would have no such knowledge of carnal deviance.

"Speaking of fetishes. I used to think masturbation meant chewing your food." The waitress walked up, uninvited. She had the slice of pie with the sloppily placed ice cream next to it. Placing her body in a 'come hither' position, she suggestively placed the pie in front of Mr. Crowley.

"Thanks Meg," an oblivious Castiel nodded in her direction. "Mind locking the door behind you before you leave?" he asked.

Meg sighed, threw her hands in the air, and walked off, hips swinging.

"So? You in or not?" Mr. Crowley asked. Before Castiel could give a response, Crowley began digging into the pie. After a minute, he added, "a dog is involved."

"What kind of dog?" Castiel tensed up. Ever since his "accident" with Raphael, he'd been wary of dogs in general.

"Dead, of course." Mr. Crowley paused and took another bite. "They're putting her down. Quite a shame really. Apparently did her owner in."

"When you say 'apparently'…" Castiel raised an eyebrow.

"Probably framed." Mr. Crowley finished and wiped his face. "I mean, it's pretty easy to stuff part of the victim into a dog's mouth after all." He shrugged, brushing crumbs from the lapels on his black suit.

"You know there are such things as feral animals." Castiel pointed out, his face remaining non-objective.

"That's the thing." Mr. Crowley said, finally finished scraping at his pie plate. "He's perfectly harmless. Never harmed a hair on anyone's head." He pulled out a picture of the happiest, cutest dog that Castiel had ever seen. It was a Chow.

"You do realize this breed is the most likely to turn on it's owner, right?" Castiel sighed. He felt like this was a dead end.

"My, my." Mr. Crowley grinned wickedly. "Are you judging before getting to know it? Tsk, tsk Castiel." He waggled a finger. "Regardless, if we can prove it's murder, we get paid."

The facts were these: one Ned Crust, 39 years, 42 weeks, 5 days, 3 hours and 26 minutes old, was found mauled to death in his home office. His dog, Digby, was the sole witness and only suspect in the murder. Convinced of the beloved dog's innocence, the Crust family offered a significant reward to find the real killer.

And so, the unlikely pair arrived at the Coroner's office and approached the front desk, as their protocol dictated. They hoped to gain the audience of Ned the Very Dead (for now) with little to no resistance.

"I swear a Dog expert came by earlier. Isn't that right Mr. Fizzles?" The coroner pulled up the ugliest looking sock puppet either man had ever seen.

"That's right Garth!" Garth moved the sock with his hand so it appeared like it was talking, while he, in a high pitched voice, narrated. "These men seem suspicious, yes they dooooooo." Crowley's already ruddy color deepened in frustration.

"Nothing wrong with a second opinion." Castiel said, stoically. He wanted to react another way, maybe a laugh, maybe a worried look with Mr. Crowley. But they'd done this so many times he was just annoyed, and chose professionalism instead.

"I don't knooooow…" chimed Mr. Fizzles via Garth the Coroner's hand.

"I have a can of bleach with your name on it if you don't." Mr. Crowley shrugged, a shade of purple that Castiel had never seen him turn.

"Fine." Garth waved his hand and the two men entered the room.

The two men approached the drawer marked "Ned Crust." With a quick assuring nod from Mr. Crowley, Castiel opened the door. The body slid out, covered by the sheet.

"How does he look?" Mr. Crowley asked.

Castiel lifted the sheet. "Fine, but my threshold's pretty high, so you have to take what I say with a grain of salt."

Mr. Crowley peered and groaned. "Forget the grain. This is like a fucking block." He waved his hand in front of his nose, clearly nauseated by the putrid smell.

"He can't help how he is." Castiel took a shallow breath. He was going to have to do the deed soon.

"Right. Well I can see I'm not needed, I'll just be…" He didn't bother to finish as he walked outside of the room, purple facing to a sickly green.

Castiel rolled his eyes and poked the body with this index finger, feeling the familiar jolt.

"Hello." Ned said. His brown hair was combed and styled, at least where a chunk hadn't been torn from the side. His fleshy skin was tender, red, and rent on the left side of his face.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Crust. Or, do you prefer Ned or-

"Ned!" The man interrupted. He flashed a gory grin with what teeth he had left.

"Ned, right, um, your current condition…" Castiel brought his finger and scratched the side of his face to indicate that Ned should do the same.

"Oh right, the dog." Ned sighed.

"Digby?" Castiel asked.

"God no. Digby's docile as a kitten. It's that Rottweiler: my secretary sicced her dog on me. She's been upset since last year's Christmas party. Y'know funny story, I-"

Castiel poked him once again. The minute had almost expired and he wasn't about to risk someone else dying over a story about a mishap involving a photocopy machine at Christmas party. Passe.

"So, was it the Chow?" Mr. Crowley approached, his facial coloring had returned to a perturbed reddish tint.

"The secretary. With a Rottweiler." Castiel said.

His good name cleared, Digby was freed. Olive Snook, the secretary, and her Rottweiler were hauled to justice shortly after. An anonymous tip led to solving the murder of the Michigan entrepreneur thought to be mauled to death by the family pet, and the handsome reward was distributed to the innovative private investigators involved.

* * *

Meg Masters watched the story unfold on the news from her comfortable couch 17 hours, 12 minutes and 32 seconds after. Meg had abandoned the tight-fitting black and red ensemble for a silky kimono style robe, complete with floral print. She enjoyed her time with her canine friend Raphael, given to her by The Pie Maker. Raphael was a surrogate for the human connection she wanted with Castiel. Her desperate attempts to connect with him ended in futility, but that didn't stop her from trying.

Just as the news ended, there was a knock on her door. She answered, and a subtle, sexy grin spread across her luscious lips.

"How was your...convention?" she purred, letting her silk robe slide off a shoulder. Castiel occasionally said he was going to pie making conventions, which gave her a topic starter after he returned. She wasn't entirely convinced this was what he was doing, however.

"Conventional." Castiel walked past her, as if she wasn't even there. "How was Raphael?"

He walked over and smiled at the dog.

"Neurotic. He's a very needy dog. Do you pet him?" She walked over to Castiel and ran a hand along his shoulder. He flinched and shook her off. "Maybe if you pet him once in awhile, he wouldn't be so…neurotic." She made sure to drag out the last word, running her fingers along the edges of his shirtsleeves.

"I pet him." Castiel said. The confused look once again dressing his face, clearly not catching on to the subtle seduction. "I'm allergic, so I can't actually touch him, but I pet him."

"How the hell do you pet him if you don't touch him?" Meg blinked. It sounded so stupid. "With a stick?"

"A stick is involved, but it's a…" Castiel couldn't finish. Meg was starting to walk towards him, her shoulders pressed back to draw attention to her ample bosom as she approached. She placed her hands on his arms. "…a petting device."

"A dog needs to be touched." Meg ran her finger along the trace of his bicep. "All bitches need to be touched." She batted her lashes at him. For a moment, she had him. He was all hers. She could see it in his eyes. Then the moment passed.

"You touch him though." Castiel broke the embrace and walked to the other side of the room.

Meg needed that moment back. She placed her hands on his shoulders and began to rub. "Do you…" her hands began to run down his waist. "Touch…" from his waist to his leg. "Anything?" Now her hands found their way to his inner thigh. She added pressure.

"I uhh." She could hear Castiel breathing heavy. "I touch lots of things."

"When was the last time, someone else touched you." She added emphasis as her hand started to get dangerously close to the place she desperately wanted to touch.

"I get touched." Castiel wriggled out of her grip. "Can you get Raphael's leash now?"

Meg folded her arms and walked over.

Castiel was unsure what to make of the interaction. On one hand, Meg was very attractive, but on the other…he just hadn't felt the way he did the first time he'd fallen in love.

"You don't mind that I don't touch you." He looked over at Raphael who looked up at him with large, sappy puppy dog eyes. "Do you?"

Before the dog could respond, Castiel heard the TV in the background. Though it had probably been on the whole time, he just now noticed it with Meg not running her hands all over him.

"In other news, the body of a young man allegedly murdered aboard a cruise ship has been recovered from the sea. The victim's identity is being withheld-"

Castiel looked at the arms and sandy brown hair dangling from a stretcher as it lifted from the ocean in the tiny box above the news anchors head. Something about this made him quiver, as if lingering from the after effects of a bad movie.

Castiel couldn't pry himself away from the story. He listened intently to the news, unaware that he stopped breathing. He was haunted by the name of the man who had met his end on the high seas.

"Here's your leash." Meg handed him a length of tightly wound cord. But he barely noticed.

The story played over the next few days, but still the name of the victim was being withheld. Castiel was kneading the dough from the kitchen in The Pie Hole when next he heard the newscaster.

"Very little is known about the victim. Apparently, he was traveling alone when he was murdered aboard the passenger ship. It was returning from a tropical cruise. The death was initially dismissed as an accident, suggesting the passenger had fallen over from a late night out…"

"Been watching this one too?" Mr. Crowley sat at the bar that faced the kitchen. Several empty stools lined the counter next to him.

"What else is there to watch?" Castiel asked. "It's not like there's been much else going on."

"Actually," Mr. Crowley leaned in as if about to expose the world's greatest secret. "There's loads going on with the dead man."

"That so?" Castiel asked.

"Mhm. $50,000 worth of 'that so.' Interested?"

"I could be persuaded." The idea of $50,000 tempted The Pie Maker. He was suddenly more interested than ever.

"Well, you'd better be quick. He's about to go into the ground."

"But they just pulled him out of the water a day or two ago."

"Hunters." Mr. Crowley said. "Most leave 'em lying around; Hunters want their damn symbolic burnings," He stood up.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked. He put up his apron, Meg could handle the shops affairs for a bit.

"Lawrence. Ever been there?"

"I grew up there. Sort of. Does the man have a name?"

"Dean Winchester."

Castiel stopped. He felt cold as numbness began to sweep all over his body. He recalled the tender kiss from the funeral, playing with hex bags when they were kids, and the tears streaming down his childhood friends' face as his father lay dead on the ground.

"Dean." Castiel said in a tone barely above a whisper. _No…_


	2. Chapter 2: The Longest Minute

Chapter 2: The Longest Minute

Castiel never returned to Lawrence, Kansas after being sent away to school, but he thought of Dean every day. So when he was finally presented with the chance to go back, he couldn't help but feel despair in the pit of his stomach. As he sat on the bus, driving far into the countryside, with Mr. Crowley snoozing on his side, he looked out the window, wishing he'd been able to meet with Dean under better circumstances. A field of brightly colored, yellow daisies covered the rolling hills of Kansas as they drove.

The facts were these: Dean Winchester, 28 years, 24 weeks, 3 days, 11 hours and 51 minutes old, was found floating in the ocean, moments after his body was discarded there. Discarded by whom seemed to be a question only Dean Winchester could answer.

The bus ran over a bump, which shook Mr. Crowley awake. The sudden stink of exhaust filled the bus, causing Castiel's nose to wrinkle in disgust.

"We there yet?" He rubbed his eyes.

"No, not far though." Castiel's gaze never broke from the window as the daisies filled his eyes.

"Good. Sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get the money. I do have to ask though," Mr. Crowley sat up and looked over. "Did you know this guy?"

"I did." Castiel replied. He closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip, fighting back a tinge of sadness.

"I mean in the biblical sense, love."

Castiel rolled his eyes and looked over. "I haven't thought of him since I was ten. I don't remember anything about back then."

The Pie Maker remembered everything.

Soon the bus had rolled to their stop, and after a few blocks they arrived at the funeral home. The remainder of the journey had been in silence. They walked in, Mr. Crowley giving money to the funeral director, who pocketed it, and let them into the viewing room. Castiel's tan trench, undone at his sides, stopped flowing behind him as he stood in front of the porcelain casket.

Once the door had shut. Castiel turned to Mr. Crowley. "Um, I need a moment alone. You know, history and all between us…"

"You got something...personal you need to… ahem, say?" Mr. Crowley put emphasis on personal and his lips curled into a knowing smile.

"No." Castiel lied. He took a breath when Mr. Crowley's raised eyebrow let him know he was not believed. "Okay, maybe. I just need a moment."

"A moment for…?" Mr. Crowley's mouth remained open as if waiting for Castiel to finish the sentence.

"I want to say sorry. I wronged Dean." Castiel clenched his right hand. "I did something stupid to him when we were kids." His thoughts immediately traveled to Dean's father.

"Just be sure not to let your head get filled with...romantic gestures. We need to know who killed him. So ask that first, then say your words. You have one minute." Mr. Crowley said.

"I know."

"Sixty seconds." Mr. Crowley pointed to his silver Rolex.

"I know." Castiel repeated.

"Fine, fine." Mr. Crowley walked outside and shut the door.

Castiel was now alone. He turned to the casket. His mouth went dry and his fingers started to shake. There was more he wanted to say, that wouldn't get said. His hands ran over the smooth surface of the cold casket. With a deep breath, he pushed the lid up and looked at the handsome, but extraordinarily dead Dean. His sandy brown hair was messy, but somehow looked good on him. He seemed peaceful.

Castiel felt his stomach flip as he stared upon the face of his first love. Only Prince Charming could know how The Pie Maker felt looking upon Dean. Great thought was taken as to where to touch him. The lips, too forward. The hands, too intimate. The cheek...maybe the cheek.

Decided, he reached his hand down to the man's cheek, caught his breath, and let it fall to the warm skin of his first love. With a jolt, Dean's emerald green eyes snapped open. He looked up at Castiel. Castiel flashed a nervous smile.

Then Dean grabbed Castiel's tie, pulled it forward, and banged the man's head on the casket. Castiel cried out in pain, holding his head and staggered back. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth from biting the inside of his cheek. After a second, when the pain stopped searing, he looked up to see Dean holding a chair, ready for another attack.

"Ow! Ohh…" Castiel winced. "Dean, wait!" He held up his hand.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean said. A snarl formed on his face. "Start talking, or so help me God, I'm going to bash this chair through your goddamned skull."

"When we were little, I lived next door. You remember when your father died?" Castiel removed his hand from his head. It hurt, but getting Dean not to 'bash the chair through his skull' was more important in this moment.

"Cas?" Dean's expression changed. He set down the chair as a half-open smile, with the left side higher than the right, replaced his snarl. He was even more handsome than Castiel remembered. His "messy" styled brown hair brought out the brilliant emerald in his now happy eyes. He had on a grey jacket with a heather grey button up shirt beneath. The top button was undone, showing off the pale, perfect skin beneath. "How the hell are you man?" He walked over.

"Uh, good Dean." He made sure not to touch him. Not yet. "Listen, I have to tell you-"

"Funny I thought I was on that damn boat. Bad choice for a vacation; you figure out just how single you are on a cruise. So I put down a couple beers and then…" His eyes widened. He now had a shocked expression. "Some bastard was strangling me on the deck. But then, how am I here?"

"Dean, you were strangled to death." Castiel said. "Wow I bet that sounds odd. How else are you supposed to break that kind of news to someone?"

"Oh." Dean looked over to the casket. He blinked, raised an eyebrow, turned back and shook his head as if he'd just seen a four headed dog. "Oh! Well that's not something you see every day."

"You only have a minute. Less actually." Castiel looked at his watch.

"Damn. How am I supposed to use this minute?" Dean asked.

"I need you to tell me who killed you. That way justice can be served." Castiel gave him an intense blue stare.

"Nice thought, but I've got no clue. I was staggering around the deck and...well, I was hurling over the side, and then I just felt this rope around my neck…" He rubbed his neck where some burns were showing. "Next thing I know, I feel your hand against my cheek." His hands thoughtfully moved from his neck to his cheek, verdant eyes softened. Castiel felt his heart stop. He remembered that exact moment vividly.

There was a loud knock. "Done in there yet?" Mr. Crowley called, a bawdy note in his tone.

"Almost." Castiel said back.

"Back into the ground then?" Dean asked.

"I-" Castiel couldn't bring himself to apologize. He choked up.

"Cas, it's okay. I get it." He took a step forward.

"No one's called me Cas since you." Castiel felt a tear form on the edge of his eye and wiped it away. "Dean...you were my first kiss. I...haven't stopped thinking about you."

"Yeah?" Dean smiled and walked right up to him and looked into his eyes. Castiel's world went fuzzy. "You were mine too. Want to make it my last as well?" His eyes, jade and practically sparkling, started to close as he bent towards Castiel.

"I'd love nothing more…" Castiel went to join him. At least, if this had to end, it would end the best way he could imagine.

Dean's minute of life was nearly over. Castiel's lips went as far as they would go: he couldn't will them to go any further. His bottom lip trembled, feeling the heat from the other's breath, and then, he took a step back.

Dean's eyes opened as Castiel pulled back. "Listen Cas, I get it. If you don't want to kiss...I just thought it might-"

"No. I do. It's just..." Castiel interrupted. His hands shook as a thought pressed against his mind. He knew the consequence, knew someone around would suffer. But for one selfish moment… "What if you didn't have to be dead?"

"Shit. That'd be great."

"We can't tell anyone." The gears turned in Castiel's mind as he opened the casket, which had half closed in the earlier scuffle. "Get in." Dean obeyed and got in.

"Kinda weird to be in here." Dean said, shifting uncomfortably. Once settled, he looked up, eyes pleading with Castiel. "Don't...leave me again." Castiel's heart broke.

"Just lie still." Castiel shut the casket slowly, making this the second hardest thing he'd done today. "I'll figure this out, just don't move. Okay?"

"Got it." Dean was still after that.

* * *

Castiel left and met up with Mr. Crowley who was waiting outside. He had an anxious look.

"So?" He asked.

"Had no idea. Didn't remember anything." Castiel clipped, a little too quickly. He was the worst liar, and he knew it. Maybe if he wasn't asked any specific questions...oh no, he was psyching himself out. Don't think about it, don't think...shit. His sweat started showing on his trenchcoat and he swore silently.

"Odd. Someone just strangles the man and then tosses the body overboard - you're sweating mate." Mr. Crowley snickered, taking note of the painfully obvious wet spots forming.

"It's just the temperature and my coat." Castiel adjusted his necktie trying to calm himself down.

"Your eye's twitching." Mr. Crowley folded his arms in suspicion.

"Oh?" Castiel tried looking away.

"What aren't you telling me?" Mr. Crowley was practically growling now, for such a short man, he was fairly intimidating.

"I-I-I got nervous, I suppose. I mean, I knew the victim this time. Made my stomach aggravated. It's like acid reflux, but...in my eye."

 _Acid reflux in my eye?!_ Castiel realized just how stupid that sounded even as he was saying it.

"Riiiight." Mr. Crowley wasn't convinced. Whatever reservations he had though, he dismissed and started to walk away. "Shall we then?"

"Actually, I want to pay my respects. I've never seen a hunter burial before." Castiel knew this was his chance. If not now, then he'd be letting Dean get burned alive.

"Suit yourself. I've gotta try to get more information anyways. No offense, but you aren't exactly the greatest source of info at the moment." Mr. Crowley said. He waved. "You remember how to get back to the station?"

Castiel nodded and Mr. Crowley took off. Time to get to work.

* * *

Dean Winchester hadn't been to a funeral since the death of his dad. As he felt the casket shift from being picked up, he realized that just moments ago, he was unaware that he was dead. The fury began to set in. He'd died on a stupid goddamn cruise from some asshole strangling him to death. He wanted to go shove his foot up the goddamn ass of the asshole who'd fucking strangled him.

He raised his fist to punch the top of the casket, but stopped. Castiel had told him explicitly not to do anything. True, if he didn't eventually bust himself out, he'd be burned alive, just like any other good hunter, but Castiel had seemed so sure. He took a deep, calming breath.

Cas.

It had been years, but Dean still recalled those innocent pools of blue looking at him from when they were kids.

He wanted nothing more than to be lost in Cas' eyes forever.

But the awful truth surfaced as thoughts of mashing his lips against the other man's were shattered. Cas couldn't touch him. It wasn't explicitly stated, but he somehow knew that's how it worked. He'd been brought back to forever pine for someone he couldn't touch. Fuck.

At least he was alive.

The casket was now being settled and a motor roared to life. There were vibrations, and soon he lost his grip on the cushioned bottom of the enclosure and hit his head against the side of the casket as the car drove. He swore as quietly as he could and covered his mouth so his grunt would be muted. Then the car made a sharp turn and on pure instinct, he held his arms and legs out against the sides of the casket so that he wouldn't flail around. In doing so, his head started hurting due to the lack of pressure being applied. Dean pursed his lips. If he hadn't promised Cas he wouldn't do anything stupid...he'd have made one of his glorious escapes in blazing fashion. But this wasn't his show right now, it was Cas'. And he had to respect that. But god, he wanted to bust out. Fuck small spaces.

 _Hurry up Cas, or I'm gonna fuck some shit up._

* * *

Back at the station, Castiel jumped aboard the bus that would take him to the gravesite. When he pulled the cord for the stop, the bus driver gave him a pitiful look. Castiel adopted a glum persona, he was going to a friend's funeral, definitely not on his way to break a dead man out of a sealed coffin...his somber look turned to panic as the bus pulled away. What if he wasn't quick enough? The sweat on his brow made a swift return as he rushed toward the hill where he knew the hunter pyre would be built.

"Stack it high, boy, we don't want it going out on us!" A gruff man in a dusty flannel and a graying beard was directing a tall man with floppy hair on the proper placement of the logs for the coffin's final destination. The younger man rolled his eyes and pushed the hair from his eyes with one stroke.

"Bobby, let it go, I've got it!"

Castiel looked around from his spot behind a nearby tree. He needed a distraction, and a good one. He had bargained on at least one hunter at the gravesite, but two? Where was Dean? He swiveled his range of vision and aha! There was the casket, and behind it...his distraction and his getaway. A shiny black car was parked down the one side of the hill, but on the other side...a red truck in the gravel. Taking his silver knife that he always carried from his back pocket, he crept up towards the closest vehicle. Bracing himself on the side of the truck, he slashed the knife across the tire, the air hissing out. Making quick work of the next two, he climbed back up the hill and cleared his throat.

"Excuse me sir," he addressed the older man.

"You talking to me? Cain't you see I'm burnin' a family member here? Can a man get some privacy?" The gray bearded man glared up at Castiel, emotions thinly veiled by the anger.

The younger man then gave a shout, bringing away what looked like a handkerchief. Cas saw the matted down dark brown hair and knew this was the younger Winchester brother, but did his best to hide his knowledge of this with a stoic face.

"Hey Bobby! Something's up with your truck!" Sam shouted, noticing the tires.

"Balls!" Bobby exclaimed. "Who messed with my truck? Don't anybody have any respect anymore?!" He took off down the hill after the long haired man, blustering the whole way.

Castiel ran to the casket, all pretense of solemn mourner gone. Shouldering off the heavy lid, his eyes met with Dean's.

"What are you...why are you all stretched out like that?" Cas tilted his head, observing Dean's limbs braced against the sides of the coffin.

"Being burned ain't no walk in the park Cas!" Grumbled Dean, a bruise starting to form on his forehead where it had struck the casket walls.

"Let's get you out of here," Castiel instinctively reached for Dean, but thought twice and pulled back. "Damn."

"It's alright...I got it…" Dean hoisted himself out of the casket and cast his glance down the hill. "Oh man, Sammy's here. And Bobby. Don't suppose I could…" he shook his head. "We gotta get out of here. What's our escape plan?"

Castiel pointed down the other side of the hill. "I was thinking we could somehow get that car to start…" Dean's eyes brightened at the sight of the black car.

"That's my baby! I've got the keys in my pocket, those sentimental bastards were gonna burn me with them…" he shook his head lovingly. "Let's move!" The men tore down the hill toward the vehicle, Dean swung open the driver's side door and started the motor.

"They're gonna notice us, hold on Cas!" Foot met petal met floor, and the gravel clouded behind them as they swerved out of the cemetery onto the road ahead.

"Bobby! Someone just stole the Impala! Get back here you dicks, that's Dean's car!" Shouted Sam at the cloud of dust.

Cas heard Dean mutter an apology and look distraught for half a second.

As the car sped off, Cas leaned back. He smiled. For the first time in years, the love of his life was back. Sure, they couldn't yet touch, but they'd figure it out. He tilted his head towards Dean and watched as he took a breath.

His hands were moving. His smile was real. The impossible had come true.

Dean was alive.

 _But at what cost?_

 **A/N:** We finally put up chapter twooooooooooooo ~Mr. Fizzles. Shut up Fizzles *threatens with can of bleach*. Anywho, yes we finally finished chapter 2. Thank you to everyone who is following, favoriting, and avidly reading this fanfic. Both co-authors want to express our gratitude for your enjoyment of this :) We are having a ball with it and I think you should see some of that come through in the next chapter. DEAN IS BACK! Anywho, until next time, cheers!


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